Travels with The Rayman

This is our second virgin voyage.  We aren’t counting the first one because we were just moving The Dog House (TDH) from the lot from which it haled to our dirt lot space that we pay $50/month to use.  No.  We didn’t count that trip.

We are now headed north then east from San Luis Obispo to Ridgecrest, CA.  And immediately it occurs to me that there should be a help line.  A    1 800 number that neophytes like us can call to ask such questions as, does the generator need to run when we are driving?  Why does TDH lean now that we have filled the gas tank?  and what can be done about it anyway?  Yes.  RVing is a total and complete adventure full of untold surprises.

I just sat down again.  By that I mean, when the Rayman (my husband) turned the corner, a clothe wine carrier holding 6 bottles, followed gravity (or was it centrifugal force) and broke out of the closet which fortunately was not too far from the floor and unceremoniously landed while simultaneously making an awful racket.  Figuring history would repeat itself if I reinstalled in in the closet, I had to wedge them between the bed and the coach and that is that.

But I digress.

Perhaps there is an 800 number to call.  I will investigate when I have a signal.  Currently I am not joined at the hip to the internet.

California is drying up.  There is not a blade of grass that is green as far as the eye can see.  And the eye can see a lot.  The vistas are fabulous.  Brown but fabulous.  The drought persists like an unwanted plague.  No medicine can cure it.  Only rain and that is a very distant memory.

Jumping ahead, I must inform my dear readers that my knuckles are permanently white, I fear.  That is because I just got out from the behind the wheel after driving for about 1 hour and 15 minutes on some of the worst freeway known to man, in heavy traffic ladened with big rigs.  Didn’t know I would be able to see eye-to-eye with the drivers.  Tattoos on the truck drivers (Mother, Bob Loves Ann, a replica of the American flag etc.) can be observed by the passenger.  Never by the driver because when you drive TDH, all concentration must be exercised on focusing on the road.  Scratch your foot, and you risk ploughing down an embankment.  Look for the radio and you may run into the car to your left.  Rayman made an astute observation that he is not sure which is worse.  Being the driver or the passenger.  Oh, and did I mention the wind?  We have been experiencing 20-30 mph winds.  A few times, I thought for sure I was going to fall from the freeway and land upside down in someone’s back yard.  It is harrowing.  No one told us about this.  I want my money back.  Perhaps when the hysteria dies down, I’ll see it differently.  What we need is an 800 number to call for available drivers of the RV.  Then we can take an ambien, let someone else’s shoulders get sore from scrunching them as the miles add up as we count sheep while in repose on the bed.  One can fantasize.

We are currently traveling about 30 miles per hour going straight up hill over Techachapi Pass.  I am pretty sure I can hear the gas racing through the engine netting us about 5 mpg.  The good news is that we aren’t getting pushed around by the wind.  The bad news besides the loss of fuel efficiency is that we may not reach our destination (90 miles away) before midnight.  It is currently 3 p.m.  I do not exaggerate when I report that virtually every moving vehicle on the freeway is going faster than we are, even other RVs.  Really, people, they should require new RV drivers to take a course in the Art of RV Driving and Other Non-sensical Activities.

And finally, after Rayman assumed the position (not that position, the driver’s seat), he started passing things, meaning loaded big rigs.  And about the time he started to get over in our lane (slow lane), I cried out, “THE CAR.  THE CAR.”   This caused panic on his part and he said, “WHAT CAR?”.  I yelled, “OUR HONDA.  IT’S BEHIND US.  YOU’RE GOING TO HIT THAT TRUCK.”  He replied, “I CLEARED THAT TRUCK BY A MILE.”  And this back and forth was repeated about 3 times until I finally got it through my thick head that he did know what he was doing.  Whew.  And it was at that point, out of sheer exhaustion, that I called Beau, pulled him up on my lap and I fell asleep.

But really, I wonder what we can get for this rig?

View from El Capitan campground

Well, now.  Today was the first big excursion in TDH.  Drove from Temecula to the El Capitan State campground 17 miles north of Santa Barbara. (see above)   And we did this without incident.  Rayman drove.  I’m certain that is why it went without a hitch if you’ll pardon the pun.  I’m not sure about my aptitude with this vessel.  Tomorrow is my turn at the wheel.

Beaumiester in transit

Actually, there are two campgrounds across the freeway from each other here and we took the state one.  Rayman said there were hookups so he was pleased.  When we arrived, there was an unmanned kiosk with signs that included instructions.  It was self-pay and they wanted $33 dollars in cash.  I suggested that we go pick out a sight and then return to pay.  Rayman wanted to pay and then go to the camp sight so that is what we did.  When we arrived in the area designed for RVs there were no hook ups.  Oops.  So, we picked a spot and then spotted a ranger.  He said that there was another RV resort across the freeway.  Oops.  Rayman was not a happy camper but he was instrumental so not much was discussed as you can imagine. Our spot is right on the bluffs of the Pacific.  Nice.

Rayman undid the car and we drove to Santa Barbara to visit the REI store and to get a salad to go with the pasta we were having for dinner.  Mission accomplished, we headed back, parked the car, walked the dog, fixed and ate dinner and had a lovely evening until the beeping started.  Four high pitched beeps were emanating from the carbon monoxide detector in the bedroom.  After much inspecting and discussion and opening of windows and turning on of funs, the beeping stopped.  We resumed our reading.   The beeping resumed.  Off went the generator.  Off the wall came the detector.  It was to have been replaced in 2009.  Hum.  So, I got the bright idea to text our sales guy, Leonard.  He got right back and suggested that we do what we had done.  I reported our findings and suggested that perhaps the unit was defective.  He replied, “Maybe.”  At which point I texted, “Well, if you read in the paper that a couple was found dead in their RV, tell them it was asphyxiation… not suicide.” and I sent the text.  And then I sent him another text.  “Remember, the RV Ready sign is still in our license plate holder!!”  He mentioned something about mentioning the problem to maintenance.  I mentioned that I was kidding him.  In the meantime, Rayman turned on the generator again to test it.  Then we decided it was almost 8 and that is when generators must be shut off so the Rayman just shut it off, the dog was walked, the lights were turned off, the teeth were brushed and here we are in the dark.

And now I’m pretty sure that we are parked on the Harbor freeway (picture of the Harbor freeway below).

Forget the sounds of the waves crashing.  All we can hear is the traffic.  The very loud traffic.  And the only thing that breaks up that sound is the occasional train that blows by every so often.  Did I mention that the train track was located between the campground and the freeway  OMG.  We know how to pick them, don’t we? Well, it’s called the learning curve.  And apparently we are bound and determined to utilize as much of that curve as is possible. Perhaps the traffic will die down.  It’s only 8:39 p.m.

My first stab at driving TDH

Today was the day that we had booked a train trip to Moorpark, CA to buy a car from a man that listed a 2009 Honda Fit Sport on Craigslist.  Our plan was to purchase said vehicle to tow behind The Dog House.

Fit for a Trip

The train trip involved a bus trip from the Grover Beach Amtrak station (chosen because parking is free) to Santa Barbara.  I can’t even explain why the train doesn’t run.  Who would know?  We didn’t.  It just doesn’t.  So there.

So, if you book a train trip that involves the bus, where do you suppose the bus would pick you up?  We figured it would pick us up at the train station that was printed on the ticket.  A logical assumption.

Well, we arrived 10 minutes early and waited until 6 minutes past the departure time and no bus was forthcoming.  We re-read our ticket and I called Amtrak.  Where the heck was the bus?  One man was in the parking lot.  We asked him.  He said we were in the right spot.  As calamity is our middle name, he was as wrong as we were.  NO BUS ARRIVED.  So, as I was standing there stamping my foot because as I was on hold with Amtrak, a big white bus from the other side of the train track behind a big fence pulled away heading south.  OMG.  We missed the bus.  And to add insult to injury I looked inside the unattended train station and there was a sign that said BUS PASSENGERS SHOULD CROSS THE TRACKS TO REACH THE DEPARTURE LOCATION.

“So, what to do?  Rayman discovered an Enterprise car rental around the corner.  “No, no, no”, I cried.  “Let’s figure out where the next stop is and catch the bus there.”  But I hung up before the Amtrak agent came on the line so I didn’t know where the next stop was.  So, we jumped in the car as I re-dialed Amtrak which kept me on hold until we had reached the freeway which took a really long time because we hit every light.  The bus was no where in sight.  We sped on.  Finally the Amtrak agent came on and announced that the next stop was at an IHOP in Santa Maria.  I put the address into the Garmin which had us get off the freeway where there was absolutely no IHOP.  By this time we were pretty much screaming at each other.  “There’s no IHOP here.  There’s nothing here.”  Rayman screamed, “Well what the hell do you want me to do?  OMG.  There is the bus.”   We both looked to our left, and there was the bus driving away from an IHOP that sat right next to the freeway about a mile from the other off ramp that did not lead to an IHOP.  “SOB”, he snarls.   At this point, I helpfully suggested we head to Lompoc which we found out from the Amtrak agent was the 2nd stop.  “That’s crazy, Dianna.”  To which I replied, “Well, it’s close to Casmalia.”

Now the importance of this Casmalia place is that we had decided before the bus was missed that we would have dinner at Casmalia on the way home.  Casmalia is near Vandenberg AFB which is close to Lompoc which is where the next bus stop was located.

To continue, “That’s nuts, Dianna.  We don’t even know where the bus stops.”  I interjected, “Yes we do.  It’s 123 I street.”  At this point, Rayman begins to take on a bluish color and I know I have overstepped my boundary.  Then he shrieks, “…..”.     Expletive omitted.

Then we start laughing.  Inexplicably we start laughing.  OMG.  What is wrong with us?  Why does this always happen to us?”  No obvious answer was forthcoming.  I mean let’s think about this, people.  If we wonder if we are stupid, we would be stupid for wondering that.  I could on and on but I think you get the idea.

Then reality set in and I retracted my idea.  I said, “What do you want to do?”  Between clinched teeth, “I’m not going to discuss it.”  After a bit of prying (and before the next freeway offramp) he said he wanted to just drive to Santa Barbara because he knew where it was and that is where we were scheduled to get on the train.  Yep.  Take a bus to catch a train.

But I digress.

We did what he wanted because he was right.

So all this meant that we drove to Santa Barbara, parked the car, went to lunch and caught the train to Moorpark.  Then we bought the car from a great guy who hails from Bulgaria who went to UCLA and is now an electrical engineer.  His girlfriend is from Albania.

So there it was.  The red zip zip car.  It rides hard and sort of whines at 65.  There’s only one arm rest.  It runs like a top.  And it is a shifter.  Getting both feet involved at the same time the arms are involved is almost quaint (except at NASCAR).

We then drove together to Santa Barbara.  Then the Rayman took our Lexus and I took the Fit and we were on our way to Casmailia.  About half way there, I called Ray and said that my enthusiasm for dinner at Casmalia was waning.  Rayman agreed that to drive 20 miles out of our way was also losing it’s appeal for him so we stopped in Pismo for dinner.

And that’s what happened today.

Well, people, we’ve done it now.  We temporarily lost our minds and are now poor owners of a 32 foot motor home.  A home on wheels.  A home away from home.  And this is due in large part because of our dog, Beau.  Let me start from the beginning.

Beau looking at you

Some of our dearest friends have RVs.  And they keep leaving us for parts unknown.  Secondly, we like to travel and travel is getting very complicated with our Beau.  That’s because we also like to golf and so when we go out of town, arrangements must be made at distant kennels for doggie daycare.  That is a huge hassle.  Papers must be produced to prove that the dog has the  required shots.  You must conform to the kennel schedule which is usually 8-5 during the week, more restricted on weekends.  Well, that is difficult to do because it cuts into your time for telling lies about your golf game over, let’s say, a Guinness beer, after the round.  And you can’t miss your starting time because the kennel opened late….for instance.

And what about bed bugs?  You may find bed bugs in the hotel.  That happened to us once in Turkey.  See earlier post from June, 2012.  If it happened once, it can happen again.  With your own RV, you can protect against bed bugs.  The bed bugs in RVs probably consist of earwigs, spiders and the like.  But no actual bed bugs.

With an RV, you do not have to stay on the freeway.  People, have you ever noticed that all hotels are located about 5 yards from an 8 lane interstate?  All night long you are subjected to whizzing cars, downshifting semis, horns, you name it.  With an RV you can literally get away from it all.  Middle of the desert.  Middle of a forest.  It’s call boon docking or some something like that.  I don’t know enough to know for sure what it is called but I’m told it involves parking out in the middle of nowhere.  Anyone with an RV that is “self contained”, a new term to me also, can park and stay without electricity or running water.  This is because you bring your generator and a your tank full of water with you.  Admittedly, this is hearsay, but keep tuned to this website for either confirmation or a for sale ad for our coach.

OMG.  Speaking of coach.  I thought it was a handbag but, no, the word has other meanings.  Coach is what many people call these behemoths.  They are also referred to as rigs.  I thought a rig came with oil.  As of yet, I don’t know the proper terminology and thus I’m not sure whether to call it a coach, a rig, an RV.  Therefore, to settle the issue, our “whateveryoucallit” will thus be referred to as The Dog House.  Yep.  That is what we named our vehicle of giant proportions.  The Dog House or DH for short.  Which brings me back to the only time we ever used an RV.  In our infinite wisdom and for all the right reasons (moving close to number one son), we borrowed my mom’s and stepdad’s RV to travel to Tucson to 1. find jobs  2.  find a permanent place to live.  The bed was over the cab and Rayman being claustrophobic almost went crazy with the roof of the RV being about 5 inches from his nose.  I wasn’t fond of sleeping up there either because I was relegated to the inside position which required me to climb over him to get to the bathroom for my midnight run, so to speak.  So, when it rained, it sounded to us like we were living in a tin can.  And that’s how we ended up naming that RV The Tin Can.    See picture below.

But I digress.

The thing is, we aren’t getting any younger so if we want to pay through the nose to take a vacation, now is the time.  Because RVs don’t make any sense from a financial point of view.  You must cast caution to the wind.  You must resign yourself to losing money.  It’s not an investment.  But what vacation is?  It’s possible to drop a lot of change on vacation and when you return, all you have are some digital pictures, really.  Oh, yes, and the memories of all the great experiences you had.  I figure with an RV we can enhance our memories with grousing about the cost of gas, the fact that we will only get about 7 mpg, all the hiccups that will certainly ensue once we “head out”.  And the depreciation of the RV.  And the hassles.  Like the one we just created by buying the DH.

You see, we now need a car to pull behind the 32 feet of motor home that we, oops, Rayman will be driving.  I’m not so sure about me driving this thing.  I need to practice driving preferably out in the middle of nowhere.  And the reason we need to get a car is so that we can “run around” while the DH stays parked.  So, we’re on a mission from god to find a car.  In the lingo, I’m told this car is called a dinghy.  Nautical meets land yacht.  And it can’t be just any car.  It has to be towable.  That is, you must be able to pull it.  You can’t just pull any car.  And I defy any reader here to find a list of cars that are towable.  Go ahead.  Google it.  We have not been able to find the info as the google leads you to articles about cars that lead you to some dealership website.  Ah, the wonders of advertising.  So, the search goes on.  I’m sure we are just googling incorrectly

So there you have it.

I’m sure I can state with some confidence that we are the only couple to have a conversation as thus.

Him.  “What have we done?  How can I get a cashier’s check to them by next Saturday?”

Her.   “What do you mean?”

Him.  “We need to sell some investments.  If we do it before the new year, we’ll create a tax issue.  Why did we buy this now?”

Her.  “What?  why didn’t you think of that before now.  We could have waited.  There are other coaches out there.”

Him.  “You wanted it.”

Her.  “We wanted it.”

Him.  “Yes, but you said you wanted it.”

Censored.

So, while Rayman is on the phone this a.m. churning up money, I’m blogging because you have to record this stuff when it’s fresh.  My prediction is that life is going to be hoot in the dog house.  Because, apparently, that is where I am destined to live.  In the dog house.

Today I awoke with a cold-like bug and this sent me immediately to the chair in my pajamas.  Only one problem.  I had a dental appointment, a dinner party and a pedicure scheduled.  The dental appoint and dinner party and the pedicure were cancelled.  Would not want this bug wandering.

In the course of canceling the dinner, my friend, Janise told me that Cook’s Extra Dry champagne will cure the cold…if you catch it in time.  I was way past time, I can tell you that with certainty.  However, there is a good, no, excellent possibility that the Rayman will be next in line to catch the bug so I added Cook’s Extra Dry champagne to the grocery list.  Thinking it was  for me, he went here and there looking for cold Cook’s Extra Dry champagne.  What a sweetie.   Oh, well, at least we have the champagne cure in case he comes down with this thing in , say, the next hour or so.

The next job for him was to finish the black bean chili I had started.  Last night I soaked the beans and that meant that they requiring cooking today.  Unwilling to do the cooking, I delegated the task to Rayman (did not want to infect the dish).  That is when all hell broke loose.

First, there was a requirement to find the oregano and the cumin.  That I did.  Then there was the requirement to chop the onions and the bells and open the can of tomatoes.  Then there was the requirement to toast the cumin and the oregano.  Oh, lordy, lordy.

My dear cousin, Susie, had enticed me to buy a new contraption that chops

veggies.  http://www.williams-sonoma.com/products/professional-multi-chopper/?pkey=cvegetable-tools&cm_src=vegetable-tools||NoFacet-_-NoFacet-_–_-  Additionally, I bought a new can opener that opens the can in such as way that there are no sharp edges.  Both these things came into play today.  Before he cut himself, he could not figure out how the new can opener worked.  He tried, he grunted, he groaned.  I finally looked up pictures on the internet.  “OH, I tried it every way but that way” he demurred.  To be honest, the can opener is counter intuitive and I would not have figured it out either.  We both hope we can remember how it works next time we need it.

Rayman is precise.  He is literal.  These are good characteristics if you are fixing something.  But when you add those characteristics to not reading directions, a problem arises in cooking.  Rayman may be a typical man in that he doesn’t favor directions.  He intuitively tries to figure it out.  And that is how he cut his finger.  With the can opener that eliminates sharp edges, he manages to cut himself.  “Gxd d*(mn it”, he shouts.  He actually had good luck with the chopper but he did read the directions.

The house now smells of cumin and oregano.  Suggesting that they smell burnt, he replies, “Too bad.  They are already in the dish.”  Rayman is so funny.  Then he stated, “Im trying to do a good job over here.  Don’t f*&k with me please.”

And so it goes in the Jackson kitchen this day.

p.s.  The above picture is the Rayman last thanksgiving.    Cooking.  In the kitchen with Bob.

A photo of teeth and trees.

A miracle occurred today.  Happily.  The stars aligned themselves in such a way as to make this happen.  Or did they?  Doesn’t matter.  It happened and I could not be happier.

Last week I read an article published in the Wall Street Journal that was penned by Jim DeMint, the leader of the Heritage Foundation, a right leaning think tank.  It actually wasn’t an article.  It was an opinion piece.  Here it is.